Walk the Battlefield
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock returns after the Fall expecting to see John. Instead, he finds that John has gone back to Afghanistan. This, he concludes, was not how he had planned for this all to happen. Read both of the Prologues if the first doesn't pique your interest.
1. Prologue - Sherlock

**Walk the Battlefield**

"Oh!"

Sherlock sighed as Molly jumped. "I assumed that you knew that I was here."

"Sherlock, you haven't been here for months!" Molly said, fumbling to finish pulling on her lab coat. "And what are you doing _here_? You know..." She dropped her voice. "In the public."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Molly, this is a hospital staff room. You do not have to lower your voice."

"But everyone thinks you're dead."

"I am aware. I think it's time for my dramatic re-entrance into the living world," Sherlock said dryly, placing his hands into his pockets. "I went to Baker Street and checked John's flat, but I can't seem to find him."

Molly frowned. "Didn't you know?"

Sherlock resisted the urge to sigh in annoyance. "Obviously, Molly, whatever you are speaking of, I do not know about it. Especially if it concerns John. As you mentioned, I haven't been here for months."

"John went back to Afghanistan."

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together as his lips twitched downwards. "He went back to Afghanistan?"

"Yeah... three months ago. He was called back," Molly said.

Sherlock looked at her intently. "Do you know when he's due back?"

She shook her head. "No... Sorry. He didn't tell me, but we weren't exactly the best of friends even before the fall."

Sherlock's sigh was involuntary. "This... This is a bit not good."

Molly smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. But you can write him a letter and let him know what's going on..."

"Yeah. 'Dear John, I'm still alive. I'll be at Baker Street and I've bought extra milk. Sherlock' That'll work well, Molly."

"Are you still going to come back, you know, officially?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes... I have no reason to stay away. And perhaps Mycroft can do something about John..." he trailed off.

Strangely, the enthusiasm he had felt about finally being able to return to London had vanished. It was great to be back but John wasn't here... Odd how his excitement had just vanished without the prospect of his flatmate.

"I'm sure," Molly said cheerfully. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock flickered his gaze back to her.

"I'm glad you're back."

"Yes," Sherlock said shortly as he turned and strode away.

London without John was barely London at all, he decided.

When had he become so sentimental?

Sherlock sighed. Against his better judgement, he was going to have to have a face to face with Mycroft to let him know that he was still alive.

After all, without John, there was little point to his return at all.

* * *

**New idea for a new AU. Keep in mind, this is just Sherlock's Prologue... the whole of the story hasn't begun. But... I'm sure you can make some possible deductions, my dear Sherlockians. :p**

**I do not own ****_Sherlock_****. I would love to hear your thoughts thus far... even though I know there's not much to go on. Does the promise of h/c lure you to stay with it? ;) At least stick around until the end of the next chapter before you decide, please. Thank you.**


	2. Prologue - John

It wasn't a choice, not really. There wasn't a choice to make. It was an idea that blossomed into something bigger and bigger until it consumed John's life and there was nothing left to do but rejoin the one thing that had got him to where he was in the first place.

So, he had gone back to Afghanistan.

There was nothing tying him back. Sherlock was gone (John still couldn't think _dead_ without his stomach twisting, without losing his breath). John himself had left Baker Street. He didn't have a girlfriend, doubted he would ever have a girlfriend. He certainly didn't have a family. He was a loner with PTSD and he missed the action of a life that was unpredictable. There was no hope for him.

So, he went back to Afghanistan.

It hadn't helped, not much, not in the beginning. The first couple of weeks was the worst, getting used to the lifestyle that he had not been incorporated in for almost eighteen or nineteen months. But he quickly lost himself in the battle wounds. These soldiers were hurt, wounded, scarred beyond belief in ways that John could comprehend. In ways that he could empathise and sympathise and he wasn't the only one who hurt. Because getting shot in the shoulder or having a psychosomatic limp in the leg had nothing on losing a best friend or getting an arm blown off. He had been lucky before and he had never realised it.

He had constantly, day-to-day, lived with the fear that something with happen to Sherlock. Mostly, this was just on days that Sherlock did something particularly stupid, like tried to take pills or ran into traffic and sniffed out bombs or even going after a mutant super-dog in the dark. But it had been that nagging feeling- _John, this can't last forever_- and it hadn't and he didn't know why it surprised him so much or why it hurt so much.

But, it did. And after Sherlock was gone, there was no going back to a normal civilian life.

So. Afghanistan.

"Watson, tourniquet needed!" one of his comrades- Jones, he thought- called, and John hastened to reply.

Being in the midst of flying projectiles, exploding bombs, dust flying, and carnage... It was something that he couldn't rightfully say he missed. Now, if war was obsolete, if there was no need or reason to the senseless killing, John would be overjoyed. But if there was a war to be fought and he wasn't helping to fight it, he was lost.

With Sherlock, he had been fighting Sherlock's war. To prove to the world that he was right, that he was intelligent, that he was human, that he was brilliant, that he was annoying but the best man he had ever known. Without Sherlock, John still tried to do those things... but people didn't want to listen when that 'best man' had ended up being a fake.

John didn't care what they thought. Taking a leaf from Sherlock's book, he had told them that they were stupid to their faces and ignored them. He didn't care what Sherlock had said at last- Sherlock was his best and always would be his best friend. He would believe in him no matter what Sherlock said, was being forced to say, because that's what best friends did.

Afghanistan.

John quickly, expertly, tied the tourniquet around the bleeding man's leg. "You're going to be just fine..." He quickly inspected the man's tags. "Brett. Is this your first tour of duty?"

The young man nodded quickly, his pain filled eyes seeking out John's. John did not smile; not because of the severity of the wound but because it was something that John did very little of nowadays.

"Good to have you on the field, Brett. I'm Captain Watson, and although I wish I could say we were meeting under better circumstances, we're not. This is Captain Jones; we're going to get you back to the med tent."

With little instruction needed, he and Jones carried the bleeding man back to their tent. John immediately started applying pressure to the wound as Jones gathered the rest of the necessary equipment for stitches. The bleeding needed to stop before he could stitch up the gaping hole.

It wasn't like John didn't have flashbacks. He did. The first week of this, the first time he had seen someone else's blood, he was back at St. Bartholomew's, fighting his own battle through a crowd of bystanders to get to his bleeding friend. He hadn't been able to save Sherlock, but these people were put in front of him to save. He could not let them down. Not like he had let Sherlock down.

John was quick and methodical. A life with Sherlock had kept him on his toes. Once the wound was stitched up properly, John left the other doctors in the tent to tend to the young man and he went back to the battlefield.

_"When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield."_

Mycroft had been right, so many moons ago. Now that John couldn't walk with Sherlock, the battlefield was the closest thing he had to Sherlock. It was sort of like... When he walked the battlefield, he saw Sherlock. It was the best thing he got, rather than talking to a slab of black rock.

"Get down!"

John hit the ground without being told twice. _Vatican cameos_, his mind supplied- but no, that life was over.

When the smoke had cleared, he was back on his feet.

He was intent on the newest patient- an older man having taken shrapnel to his face, an eye, even- when another yell pierced the air. Instinct took over and he dove for his patient, to knock him to the ground, to protect him, because he was a brother, comrade in arms-

Pain exploded up his back. The scream was involuntary and he didn't even know it was _his_ scream until others of his med troop were scrambling over to him. He was vaguely aware of an explosion, far too close, but he couldn't see through the dust and he couldn't hear anything else through the screaming.

_John!_

The voice that called his name was not a voice that could be on the battlefield. It was a deep, dark, baritone of a voice that far too often haunted his nightmares and plagued his memories. It was Sherlock's voice- something John would never live to hear again.

If he was hearing Sherlock's voice, he knew he was dying. Because Sherlock was dead.

Right?

Everything was fuzzy, confusing and disconcerting. He closed his eyes- or maybe they were closed already- and tried to block out the pain.

As with the past many, _many_ months, he couldn't. And, as with the past many, many months, he didn't try to.

He just closed his eyes and waited for the end.

* * *

**Now you see why I asked for the readers to stick around 'til John's Prologue... and why I posted it so quickly, too. Now that both of the boys 'Prologues', per se, are out the way, the plot, which you can perhaps deduce at this point... although maybe not :p will be thickened in the next Chapter, which will actually be 'Chapter One' and I promise it will be longer and more informative. :)**

**But I had a reason for you all to stick around to John's Prologue :p**

**Thanks for the reviews/favs/follows thus far. Keep them coming; I love to hear your thoughts!**


	3. Chapter One

Meeting with the rest of London- mainly the people that he knew and remotely cared about- had been something for the record books, Sherlock imagined. Molly had already known; she hadn't stopped smiling at him whenever he was around. Mycroft had rolled his eyes, but had Sherlock detected a hint of relief in Mycroft's voice? Assuredly not. Lestrade had punched him, literally, which hurt, although not as nearly as much as the hug that the DI had pulled him into afterwards, in front of all New Scotland Yard. Mrs Hudson had gone into hysterics and Sherlock had, awkwardly, spent most of the rest of the night trying to calm her down before falling asleep in his old bed in his old room at Baker Street.

God, he had missed this place.

He had slept better that first night at home than he had for the past many months. Even though John wasn't there, which was a thought that was lodged into his consciousness and unconsciousness, nagging away at him... He had slept soundly.

Mycroft was working on John's involvement with the war, so Sherlock was told. He knew nothing about it- mostly things for Queen and Country, he didn't understand and tended to avoid- but he trusted Mycroft to get his blogger back home. Occasionally, he was behind Mycroft's shoulder as he worked, but it was foreign to him, quite literally.

It was one of those things that would take time, Mycroft had said, and after being away so long, Sherlock could wait a little longer.

Sherlock begged to differ, but he didn't say a word. Instead, he just longed for the day that he would get the news that John was on his way back home. He would not admit that, of course.

Three weeks had gone by since Sherlock had gotten back to London for good. So, when his mobile rang early that morning and he saw the Caller ID was his brother, he rightfully thought that Mycroft had finally pulled the right strings and John was on his way back home. The idea of his blogger returning made his heart soar... something he quickly squelched. They still had to get through the awkward reunion and the explanations before they got back to what they were before.

No, Sherlock realised, he and John would never be the same. Not really, not after Sherlock's faked suicide, but... if they got back to crimes and killers and giggling at crime scenes, Sherlock would be happy.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't _excited_ to meet up with John again. That was self-evident in his quest to get John back to Baker Street. There was more emotion, more sentiment there, that frankly frightened him, but it had happened and he couldn't take it back. He couldn't act like nothing had changed, because it had. It was frightening, but it was what it was.

"Mycroft," he greeted. "Did you manage to catch my elusive doctor?"

_"Sherlock,"_ Mycroft replied. _"We need to talk."_

Sherlock paused. "We are talking. Why? What's wrong?"

_"Stop by the house when you get a chance,"_ Mycroft said. _"Now, if you're not busy."_

"Why? Mycroft? What's going on?" Much to Sherlock's displeasure, he found that Mycroft had hung up on him. Sherlock frowned at the steady beep of the disconnected dial tone before hanging up and going to get dressed.

He hailed a cab and drummed his fingers impatiently. Clearly, something was wrong. Since Mycroft was in charge of John's welfare and warfare, as much as he could be, Sherlock's mind immediately jumped to John. Was something wrong with John? Could Mycroft not get him back from Afghanistan? Had he been transferred?

He paid the fare and climbed out of the cab when they had arrived, going immediately to knock on the large oak doors of Mycroft's home. He was answered by... Anthea, Sherlock believed the woman's name was at the moment... and he pushed ahead without waiting on her instructions. He went straight to the sitting room and impatiently paced until Mycroft showed up a few moments later.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, striding across the room to stand in front of him. "What's going on? What news do you have?"

Mycroft gestured to the armchair. "Take a seat."

"I don't want to take a seat. What's going on?" Sherlock repeated.

Mycroft sighed. "Sit down."

With a scowl, Sherlock sank onto the edge of the armchair. "Tell me, Mycroft. I'm not some fainting maiden."

"As is obvious, Sherlock, that is something that you will never be." Mycroft offered him an envelope. Sherlock was not blind to the logo of the war office on the front.

He swiped it from Mycroft and flipped it open, pulling the letter from it. He unfolded it impatiently and scanned the letter. It took him three tries before he actually got the utter and true meaning of it.

He looked up at Mycroft. "John's missing?"

Mycroft inclined his head in a nod. "As of six days ago. He was expected back at the base and he never showed up. Several more of his medical troop have been reported as missing as well."

Sherlock looked back at the letter before letting it flutter to the floor. "What's our next plan of action, then? You have to find him."

"Sherlock-"

"Don't 'Sherlock' me, Mycroft. I know what you're going to say and I will not entertain that fact. John is _not_ dead."

"How do you know?" Mycroft asked.

"I..." Sherlock trailed off. "He is not. I would know."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Is this my brother, Sherlock Holmes, giving fact to the unproven theory that he would actually know if his best friend, miles and miles away, in a different country, was dead?"

Sherlock glared. "Don't be dull; he just isn't. He wouldn't... he wouldn't give up so easily."

"He had nothing to come back for, Brother."

Sherlock stared off into the distance, at the fire flickering in the grate. "Well, now he has something to come back _to_," he said shortly. "And you are going to bring him back. We are going to bring him back."

Mycroft looked at him emotionlessly. "What do you expect me to do? My jurisdiction is limited to Britain, Sherlock; you know that."

Sherlock scowled. "You can start wars; you can do something. And you've done business with the Germans and the Russians. You can manage Afghanistan."

"I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"Begin where John was last stationed," Sherlock said immediately. "Trace him back to his latest base and track the troop's movements. Go to the station where he was supposed to be at six days ago. Analyse who they were fighting against, I'm sure there's a specific group, something that sets them apart, where they might be... I don't know anything about this; you'll need to see. Somewhere, in between where John left and where John was supposed to arrive, he got lost. Maybe he got hurt, maybe he was taken hostage... A prisoner of war."

"Technically, Brother, soldiers are known for disappearing and turning up at different bases," Mycroft said.

"Maybe so, but we're not waiting. For John to even leave his troop designates that something is very wrong. He's a doctor; he wouldn't willingly abandon the one reason he thought he had left to live. He's injured. I'm beginning to think a POW is most likely." Sherlock pressed his fingertips together, steepling them in front of his nose. "We need to start there..."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock flickered his gaze to Mycroft again. He dropped his hands away from his face, glaring. "What do you expect me to say? I am not going to stand by while my flatmate goes through even more torture than what I have put him through."

Mycroft looked at him steadily. He didn't say anything, which made Sherlock feel uneasy. He narrowed his eyes and met Mycroft's gaze.

"What?" he asked in a monotone.

"You have changed, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock got back to his feet, fixing his jacket. "I don't know what you mean."

Mycroft turned away. "This aside, how do you expect me to trace John's movements? I have no control over the soldiers there, nor any quick way to get a correspondence to them."

"Well, I'm sure you can manage," Sherlock said.

"I'm sure," Mycroft muttered.

Sherlock was halfway to the front door before he was hit with an idea. He pivoted on his heel, looking back at his brother. "Sign me up."

Mycroft glanced up. "Pardon me?"

"Sign me up. For Afghanistan. Get me down there," Sherlock said defiantly. "I want to go down; I want to do my own deducing."

"Sherlock, you are not qualified-"

"I don't care."

"They will not accept you without the proper training, even with my recommendation."

Sherlock sniffed. "Then get me on a crash course. Do what it takes and get it done as soon as possible. It's only for a case. I'm not actually going to be fighting..."

"You hope," Mycroft said.

Sherlock looked into the distance for a moment before nodding slowly. "I hope."

Without another word, he turned and strode for the door.


	4. Chapter Two

Sherlock braced his hands on his knees as he threw up, coughing and retching and spitting up bile.

It wasn't that he was out of shape. That was an assumption that was far from the obvious. He was, in fact, in very good shape. He could run halfway across London without panting for breath. He could fight off trained assassins without breaking a sweat. He'd trained enough with martial arts and during his job that he was very fit, albeit if it wasn't in such a visible way.

But put him in a double-strength PT session and he ended up throwing up the moment that he was dismissed.

He was getting better, of course. The first time that he'd gone through a PT, especially designed for him, he'd thrown up countless times and spent most of the night passed out on Baker Street's stairsteps until Mrs Hudson had almost tripped over him in the morning.

Mycroft had gotten most of it to go through, the application and the enrolment, or re-enrolment... whatever was happening. He didn't know if Mycroft was faking papers that Sherlock had been assigned before or if he was a new recruit, but he was going to be part of John's infantry. The Royal Northumberland Fusiliers... Evil to him who evil thinks.

Sherlock spit and felt around his pockets for a piece of gum- something that he had started to carry quite frequently- and went to go hail a cab.

His legs ached, his arms ached, his whole _body_ was protesting the cruel treatment. He barely dragged himself out of bed in time for training and he'd made the mistake, the first week, to go a couple of days without food. He'd collapsed right in the middle of drill (something he still hated and thought _completely_ pointless for the reason that he was going to Afghanistan for) and woke up to smelling salts and water to the face.

His sergeant was an annoying man. Mycroft had enlisted him. And because of the 'crash course' that Sherlock had opted for, it meant a sort of CIC, with extra-strength PT every day. What would normally take months was going to take weeks. Weeks that Sherlock hadn't wanted to waste on this rubbish but Mycroft had insisted or something. Sherlock was losing track of the details that Mycroft dealt with. All Sherlock knew was that he was joining the army, going through training, in London, specifically for himself, designed for him, that he was going to end up in Camp Bastion, and that he was going to find John.

Sherlock mumbled out _221 Baker Street_ to the cabbie and promptly fell asleep against the window.

* * *

It was almost like a case, once one got used to it. It hurt, it still hurt, and Sherlock began to suspect that it always would hurt, but once he got to Afghanistan, it would be smooth deducing from there.

He was trained with rifles and machine guns, which he had already had experience with and passed the target practices with flying colours. The mortars were a bit different, and he even got his hands on a combat shotgun to practice with at some point. This wasn't the difficult part. Shooting was easy, shooting came naturally to someone who dealt with criminals like they were common friends.

Weapons training was easy and drill got easier. PT _never_ stopped being so physical, but that was rather the point. Fieldcraft was an absolute _breeze_; it was the skill that involved observation and Sherlock took pride in astounding his never-expressive sergeant. Personal administration annoyed him, though; who cared if the uniform was straight or the boots were polished? Had to be one of those pride things or something. Despite all of this training, Sherlock wasn't so much a soldier than a civilian, but a civilian _trying_ to be a soldier for a cause.

But then, that's what all soldiers did, right? Stopped being civilians because they had a _cause_?

Sherlock had the little pleasure of beating his own personal record on the assault course. He let out a exhilarated sigh and shifted his weight, forcing his battered and bruised body to keep standing. He'd been at this long enough to know that sitting down on the job was something that could get you reprimanded, or worse, killed in action. The added burn of a hundred press-ups on already sore limbs did nothing to help, so he kept standing.

He licked blood from his lips and shook the sweat out of his hair like a dog shaking its fur.

"My, my... My little brother has been disciplined and formulated into the likeness of a British soldier."

Sherlock's head snapped up at the voice. "Mycroft."

Mycroft meandered up to him, umbrella tapping each step of the way to mark his progress like a demented pedometer. "I don't think I've ever seen you so well-behaved."

"Piss off. If you had to do a hundred press-ups, you'd have an aneurism." Sherlock studiously did not look towards his sergeant. Said sergeant was there because of Mycroft, any how.

"I'm quite looking forward to getting the results for your final day of training."

Sherlock smiled sardonically. "Oh, well, don't worry, Mycroft. I'll pass with points to spare."

Mycroft smiled frankly. "I'm sure. Tomorrow, isn't it?"

Sherlock nodded curtly. "And after I get through on the physical fitness, can I be deployed?"

"I continue to be astounded at your level of enthusiasm," Mycroft said, scratching at the dirt with the tip of his umbrella idly. "But, yes, everything else has been... arranged."

Sherlock let out a deep breath. "Good. Finally. Are you coming to watch tomorrow?" he asked suspiciously, half afraid of the answer.

"No, sorry. I'll have to miss it. Meeting in Durham."

Sherlock tried not to look too gleeful. "You'll know the results perhaps before I do."

"Of that I have no doubt."

Sherlock clenched his teeth together against a yawn. He looked warily towards his sergeant. This was the one part that Sherlock had most trouble with: accepting orders. Or even having to have someone approve his actions. Someone who told him went to run, when to march, when to stop humming _The British Grenadiers_ under one's breath, when it was acceptable to use the loo, when it was necessary to keep working, when it was _permitted_ to take a water break...

"Dismissed, soldier. Rest up and be here at nineteen thirty hours sharp!"

"Yes..." Sherlock shifted his eyes to Mycroft before looking back to his sergeant. "... Sir."

Sherlock accompanied Mycroft back to the awaiting car and took the water bottle that his brother offered immediately. He drank about half of it without pausing for breath, only resurfacing to cough and splutter from his over-eagerness. He screwed the cap back on the bottle and slumped, feeling boneless, against Mycroft's car seat.

"I know what you're thinking and don't say it," he said shortly, shifting a bit uncomfortably. The uniform was something he would never get used to, compared to his pristine shirt and blazers.

"I'm proud of you, Sherlock."

Sherlock groaned and turned his attention to the window. "Don't be stupid. I'm not a 'real' soldier. These things take months... years... I'm doing this in weeks. I'm not a 'real' soldier."

"The paperwork may be faked, but this isn't."

Sherlock slid down in the seat slightly, almost low enough to rest his chin on the window's perch. "I'm tired, Mycroft. I don't want to have this conversation. Why are you here, anyway? You haven't bothered to collect me before this."

"It's your last day of training."

"Yes, so? Why didn't you pick me up from my testing tomorrow and drive me to the airport?"

Mycroft glanced at him. "You do realise it's not really a test?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I know. It's just more PT stuff, but I have to do a certain amount in a certain time or-" he yawned. "Or something like that. Sit-ups and press-ups and the two mile and..." he trailed off. His eyelids were growing heavy and his body was already preparing to make up for the workout. It wasn't his fault. His transport was used to this. He always slept on the way home from training. "Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"I'm going to fall asleep," Sherlock said bluntly. "I would appreciate it if you don't take annoying pictures of me or leave me somewhere besides Baker Street."

"Brother. Why would I do that?" Mycroft asked, sounding amused.

Sherlock would have rolled his eyes if he had not closed them already.

* * *

Sherlock's back hit the ground hard after the two minute mark on the sit-ups. It wasn't that he _had_ to do sit-ups but the sergeant thought it was necessary, something about his personal regime or some rubbish. So, on top of the static lift, the 'jerry can' test, and the mile and a half run, he was doing sit-ups and press-ups and the beep test. He wasn't sure _why_, but he had a feeling that his sergeant just liked to torture him. Or maybe Mycroft had told him to. Because he knew for a _fact_ that the beep test wasn't part of the soldier's physical fitness requirements.

"Sixty-seven, soldier."

"I can count," Sherlock replied. "Aren't you supposed to be calling me 'Private'?" he asked, a shiver crawling down his spine as sweat ran down his neck.

"You can accept the name of Private when you've accomplished what you're here to do. So far, you've yet to do that."

"Yeah, right," Sherlock muttered, pushing himself back into a sitting position.

"What was that?"

"... Nothing. Sir," Sherlock said begrudgingly, pushing himself to his feet. "I'm ready for the run, sir."

"I didn't ask if you were ready!"

Sherlock bit his tongue- something he'd learned to do a lot in the past few weeks, still something he hated and would completely delete once he had John back- and jogged after the sergeant.

It was on his fifth lap that he noticed that he had an audience.

"Oh... God," he muttered.

If it was one person he had been hoping to avoid goodbyes to, it was Molly Hooper.

He finished his laps at ten minutes, seventeen seconds, and waited for his sergeant to give him leave for a much-needed break. Besides, he had finished the 'training course' or whatever it was.

"Hit the showers, soldier."

Sherlock glanced back the bleachers and beckoned Molly over. It wasn't that he _wanted_ to talk to her... It was just that he was going to have to, so he ought to now rather than later.

"Mycroft... Your brother mentioned that you were leaving later tonight, training permitting," Molly said quietly.

"Yes. I'll be on a plane to Afghanistan sometime later tonight," Sherlock said, striding back towards the locker room. "No, you can come in; it's just me here. Hadn't you noticed the rigorous training isn't _precisely_ what the normal soldiers do?"

"I don't think I should-"

"If you want to talk to me before I leave, you're going to follow me," Sherlock said, pulling the door open and heading back to the showers. Much to his surprise, Molly followed him.

"Are you... I mean- Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder as he pulled his shirt off. Molly's face was beet red. "Molly, do remember that we lived together for an immeasurable amount of time after my faked suicide. You perform post-mortems on men every day."

She muttered something that Sherlock didn't catch, although when she spoke again he could tell that she'd turned her back to him. "Are you sure no one's going to come in here?"

"Unless my sergeant wants to find out how many press-ups I can do while in unfavourable conditions- the shower becoming a rainy day- I sincerely doubt it."

Molly sighed. "I can't believe you're going through with this."

"Oh, don't sound so worried. I'm just going to find John, not really serve my term in war," Sherlock said, folding his uniform on the sink edge and stepping into the shower.

"... People die every day in war, Sherlock."

"Yes," Sherlock allowed, closing his eyes as water cascaded over his body.

"You could be one of those people."

"Please don't be overly sentimental." Sherlock reached for the body wash. "While it is certainly a possibility, I endeavour to stay optimistic. Especially given the situation that has caused all of this fuss."

"Do you think you're going to be able to find John...?"

"Molly," Sherlock started warningly.

It was a moot point, he knew. If John was taken as a POW, for whatever reason, or even if it was as simple as him getting lost, the fact that he had to have been hurt and, well, that had been weeks ago. But he would not think about it... because, like he had said, he would _know_ if John was dead. Somehow... Somehow, he would know.

"Afghanistan is a big place, Sherlock."

"Molly, I am sure that I know more about Afghanistan than you do at this point." He lathered up his hair quickly and rinsed the bubbles away, shaking his hair out afterwards. "Was there something you wanted besides to talk about John and I's chances of returning home?" He turned off the shower and reached for his towel. Molly handed it to him. He took it after a pause. "Thank you."

"Just... just be careful, Sherlock..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I have little aspirations to do anything else."

"You run towards danger."

Sherlock smirked as he dried off and re-dressed. "Look, Molly. I'll do my best," he said seriously. He hung the towel over the sink. "To not get hurt. But I'm coming back with John..."

"Or you're not coming back at all, right? You don't have to say it. I know it. We all know it, Sherlock. Greg's irate and... you already died once," Molly said in a small voice.

Sherlock sighed heavily. With some trepidation, he placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. To his horror, Molly threw her arms around him.

"Molly..." He held his hands away from her. "Molly..."

Sherlock sighed again and hesitantly patted Molly's back. "... Alright."

"Just be careful," Molly mumbled before turning and striding out of the locker room.

Sherlock stared after her until his mobile buzzed. He glanced at it instead.

_Your plane leaves at one. Congratulations._  
_MH_

Sherlock blinked and looked up from his mobile.

"Private, now's not the time for personal relations!" his sergeant barked into the hallway. "Sex is for your own time; this is _my_ time!"

Sherlock was about to roll his eyes when he noted... _Private_. He perked up considerably.

"Yes, sir; sex is the farthest thing from my mind... Sergeant."

He hurried down the hall, trying not to put any more particular spring in his step than he had had previously.

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**Let me say: I am truly grateful for the soldiers serving today. I do not mean to demoralise the training and hard work that they go through in this story. Yes, Sherlock can get Mycroft to pull some strings, but this is fiction, and I don't mean to insult or injure anyone with said work of fiction. More power to all of those who train and serve. Those people are heroes. :)**

**Secondly, I'm not British, as much as I'd love to be. So I'm trying to piece together what I can find about the British Army to write this story. So, please kindly ignore any errors unless they are HUGE and _glaring_. Trying my best. The British Army is different from the American army, and neither is something I know a lot about. (Yes, I know Sherlock would have to go through a ton more training and at specific places, too. But... Mycroft and Sherlock and fiction. The Holmes Brother can do anything. :p)**

**Still love to hear your thoughts, so keep them coming. :) Thank you.**


	5. Chapter Three

**Note: There is a LOT of description and not a lot of dialogue. It just happened that way. If you want to read all about Sherlock being in war, this chapter's for you. If you want to get on with the 'John's missing' plotline, you can skip to probably about halfway through this chapter without missing anything terribly important. But the end is necessary to read if you plan to read Chapter Four.**

* * *

It was sweltering.

That was the only word he could use to describe it and he _hated_ it. For being someone who rarely broke a sweat when he was running halfway across London, Sherlock _hated_ that Afghanistan was so bloody hot that he spent most of the time sweating.

The worst thing had been the first night on the terrain. Yes, he'd been training and preparing and all of that rubbish, but there was _nothing_ like camping out in the middle of the dirt and dust and hot. No shower, no pillows, no air conditioning. He really should have thought about it and it had never even crossed his mind.

He'd spent the majority of the night surrounded with Privates and Captains and Sergeants alike, staring at the top of their tent, unable to sleep. It was strangely quiet. Sweat had been dripping from his hair, down his face, thoughts a mixture of _how did John do this_ and _what are the scenarios I'm bound to witness_.

It got no better. Maybe it was unseasonably hot, maybe they in the middle of a heat wave. Sherlock didn't know. People passed out just through walking. The most Sherlock got was light-headed, but he was generally better at handling more things than the average person. And he was fine-tuned to when his body needed a drink or, worse, sleep.

The first land mine that had gone off had been a surprise. It killed seven people and put the rest of them in a sombre mood. Left Sherlock wondering how he hadn't noticed a land mine. Wondering if John had been blown up, still alive as the heat and pain encompassed his body as he was torn apart limb by limb.

That was the first time that Sherlock came dangerously close to throwing up and it was about that time that his mind just clicked off. He focussed on their regiment and nothing else. He couldn't think of the alternatives. It was a mistake to theorise without all of the facts.

His aim with the shotgun was remarkable. It took less than fifteen minutes for one of his comrades to notice and then he got the ridiculous nickname of 'Sharp Shooter Sherlock' and it stuck. He didn't honestly care what Donovan or Anderson called him, but 'Sharp Shooter' was far better than 'Freak'.

Still, he _had_ mostly kept his mouth shut. These were his comrades... he _did_ have to rely on them to get to Camp Bastion where he would then break off on his own. He didn't need enemies within his own friends... even if that one guy was sleeping with another man back home or if the young Private had lied about his age to get into service because his parents abused him at home.

"So, what brings you here, Holmes?" a man- a Captain- inquired one night, as they both picked over dinner in the mess.

Sherlock looked up from his vegetable soup. "... The army brought me here. Sir," he tacked on, looking back at his soup. Respect. He kept forgetting. (To be fair, it was a difficult concept for him.)

"Why did you volunteer, is what I'm asking."

Sherlock sighed. "A friend, sir."

"Someone I might know?"

Sherlock glanced sideways at the Captain. He didn't know his name. "Perhaps. Captain John H. Watson?"

The Captain nodded. "John Wat- _oh_. Yeah, I know him. Fusiliers. How is he? I haven't seen much of him lately."

Sherlock's curiosity was thoroughly piqued, since the Captain had said that he had known John. He looked intently at the man- early fifties, three years in the service, two children and a worrisome wife back at home- letting his head fall a few degrees to the right. "He's been MIA for weeks. Sir."

The Captain frowned. "No. He was an all around good bloke. Doctor, right?"

Sherlock assented with a nod.

"He did anything to protect his comrades, Holmes. He ran towards a live grenade just to get two children out of harm's way. Come to think of it, I think that's when he was invalided out... so we heard. I don't know if I was jealous of him or not. He got out... but injured. Of course, that's the most that most of us can hope for."

Sherlock frowned infinitesimally. "No, sir, he wasn't... Well, it was more psychosomatic," he said slowly, picking the words out of his mind palace. He didn't want to share too much about John's life; John's war days had never been a terribly open-minded place for conversation in the Baker Street household and, while Sherlock had deduced enough, they didn't talk about it.

The Captain sighed at that. "Something none of us can escape. You're lucky if you get out of here alive. To have scars is considered nothing. I hope they find him," the Captain continued. "We met up at a base not far from here and talked for a bit. But then we got to Bastion and his troop was there; it was a nice surprise to see a familiar face amongst the new recruits." He looked at Sherlock again. "So, he talked you into enlisting or something?"

Sherlock was once again faced with the task of choosing his words carefully. Breaking away from one's infantry line was probably _not_ smiled upon, but he couldn't stay with them forever if he wanted to find John. The last place John had been had been was Bastion and then Sherlock had been able to trace the line of the infantry to the east, where they had reported an attack... Sherlock was going to go there and go _from_ there.

"I was hoping to find him, sir," he said simply.

True and yet not totally true. Little did these soldiers know what Sherlock would do for his blogger.

The Captain nodded. "I hope you do, Private. I hope you do."

Sherlock nodded awkwardly before getting to his feet. The man might know John but he certainly didn't know where he was or where he had been. They weren't even part of the same regiment, but they were at the same military base. Somehow, this Captain had known John... but it didn't matter, not really.

Sherlock sighed and returned to his room, curling up in his respective bunk after a quick shower. The mattress was well-worn, fifteen years old, and the blankets were thin polyester. They were terrible accommodations for people who were putting their lives on the line, but Sherlock didn't make the comment. He didn't have to; everybody was thinking it. But mostly everyone here could find at least one thing to complain about, whether it was lack of food or injuries or missing their families. Sherlock just kept his mouth shut.

Three days later found them in an attack at a bunker. Sherlock cursed as his hearing was blasted away by an explosion nearby and then winced when a bullet sent up a mushroom cloud of dust and dirt not two feet away from him. He dove for cover and shook his head wildly, trying to stop his ears ringing even though he knew it wouldn't help. Another bullet whizzed by nearby and Sherlock twisted around, peering out from his cover long enough to take out the shooter that seemed to be fixated on him. And then he was focussed on swapping out a new round of ammo through the dust and smoke and he decided that this war business was absolutely, no doubt, the pits.

He didn't believe in world peace and all that rubbish, no. It was improbable. Someone would always have a problem with someone else; it was inevitable. But this was... this was hell. It was horrible, terrible, inhumane. He'd rolled his eyes at John for being so dedicated to Queen and Country, but... he wasn't sure if he'd do that now. He didn't know. He wanted to say that war wouldn't change him but he knew it would.

It changed everyone, he thought, as he lay in 'bed' later that night, arms over his eyes and his ears still ringing from the explosions and gunshots.

They made it to Camp Bastion two days later and Sherlock had never been more happy to see civilisation that wasn't intent on killing him.

It wasn't enough to make him swear off of deducing everyone and insulting their lack of intelligence outside of the war, nothing ever was, because everyone was still an idiot compared to him. Priorities just changed a bit here because intelligence couldn't help much. Everyone was fighting for one goal and even deducing the enemy's life couldn't help when you couldn't get close enough without getting shot.

But the promise of a hot shower, proper toilets, and pasta with alfredo sauce, peas, broccoli, and carrots was good, even Sherlock had to admit. Even a pillow was inviting and he fell asleep immediately after his head hit said pillow that night.

He woke up early. He had satisfying breakfast of whole grain waffles and eggs.

And then, when no one was looking, Sherlock gathered up his things and left.

Sneaking out of Bastion was more difficult than Sherlock thought it would be. Something was telling him to stay but if he did, the whole point of this mission was null and void. Another part of his mind said he was useless on his own in a fight and the other part said it didn't matter without John.

A few days later found John's identification tags in the dust. Sherlock's hope was renewed with the find (a minor miracle, he was aware) but he kept deducing: the scuffing of the dirt signified enemy troops, patterns of the sand showed northeast movement, hackles signified prisoners of war.

It took awhile, a few more days on their already precious count, before Sherlock found himself hiding outside what seemed to be a perfectly normal house. It seemed... logical, he supposed, that John had been taken here; it was the closest place that Sherlock had tracked the evidence to. Plus, there was something distinctive. It may just be normal, but... Something about this house. Something. No one else would notice; it was only one of those things that he would notice. It was John. Sherlock just _knew_. (What was _wrong_ with him?)

So, then, Sherlock did what any sensible consulting detective would do: he walked right into danger.

Sort of. He just kind of fired a few shots towards the building, just towards the ground so he wouldn't actually kill anyone _in_ the building.

The reaction was instantaneous.

He was yelled at and bombarded with questions- he studiously said nothing- as he was subjected to a strip search and various weapons pointed at him, threatening him, the usual hostage sort of scenario. He'd been here before, not necessarily in a war situation, but a hostage nonetheless. He didn't really hear much. Felt a bit, what with the kicking and hitting and attacks with the blunt parts of the weapons, as he was shoved.

He didn't have to deduce. This part was easy. John was a captive. Now he was a captive. It was that simple.

Still, it didn't _quite_ protect him from the shock of finding John, bloodied and beaten, unconscious, in a basement area that was literally man-made cells. It must have been an actual room before, but now it was like a prison. He didn't give his captors the satisfaction of sound nor the hint of knowing his best friend was in the next cell over, just stumbled into the dirt-floor cell and leaned back against the wall, silently, until everyone had left. They'd be back for him. No doubt.

No matter.

Sherlock turned to the cell next to him, gripping the crudely made bars tightly. "John..." he hissed. "John, wake up!"

John didn't open his eyes.

Sherlock stared intently for a few moments to reassure himself that, yes, his doctor was in fact still breathing. When he had ascertained that he was still alive, he sat down on his knees and waited. He would wait until John woke up for however long it took. He was going to be here when he woke up, he would be the first thing he saw when he woke up, because, after all this time, Sherlock thought that if John deserved anything in the world right now...

It was his best friend, dirty and beaten, but his best friend alive, nonetheless.

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**I doubt it's actually possible to sneak out of a military base but this is fiction and he is Sherlock Holmes. ****Also, my lovely 'beta' for this, storylover18, kindly informed me that Sherlock would have had to have a haircut. This is a detail that I am wilfully glossing over; cutting off Sherlock's locks, even in fiction, is not something I want to entertain. No disrespect at ALL meant to military bases security/soldiers/anything intended, as usual. (It's for plot, after all.)**

**So... the plot (like Raj's gravy) thickens. [lolsorry BBT reference]**

**Don't own _Sherlock_. (Although I am happy/sad about the update to John's blog :D) I love your reviews and your support. Thank you!**


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